


afraid of being sober

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Casual Sex, Drinking, M/M, Open Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-27 03:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18296045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: They can’t come up with words, after that. Everything is lemon and cinnamon, sticky and sweaty, too hot. They end up on the floor, Peter riding Bucky like…Like if he doesn’t, he’ll sober up. Like sobering up is the end.They come, not together, and it’s like riding a high that only goes down, so they chase it with mint and sour and haze.





	afraid of being sober

Bucky rolls off the bed, taking the silk sheets with him and ignoring the groan. He bumps a glass on the floor, amber liquid splashing across his toes. He picks it up, sniffs it, then sips. The coke has gone flat but the rum still burns down his throat.

He can hear Peter shifting behind him, skin against silk. The huff of his breath, his hand slapping the cold spot. “‘M back.”

Bucky shudders. If he turns, Peter’s eyes will still be shut, hair plastered to his forehead and lips bruised and swollen. If he turns, Peter’s gonna crack his eyes open and stare, heated and hungry. His tongue will dark out, turn those red-lips spit slick and he’ll stretch his pale torso, limber and cat like.

“Bucky, it’s cold,” Peter whines.

It’s not. It’s the middle of July and 2 in the afternoon and Peter never turns his air on. He tilts his head back, swallowing the last few drops of last night’s drink. Behind him Peter sits up on the bed, curls a hand over his shoulder and mouths at a pulse point. He nibbles, just a little, and it doesn’t burn the same as the rum.

It burns all wrong, but Bucky can feel himself swaying. Peter snakes an arm around him, scratches his fingers down the dark curls of his belly, _bites_ at his ear lobe. Bucky’s whole body twitches, but he forces his sticky foot forward.

It’s a long six steps to the bedroom, and an even longer three to the shower. Bucky turns it up as hot as he can, until the burn on his shoulders matches the burn in his gut matches the shame burning in his veins.

He lets the water run until even Peter’s fancy heater system runs cold, and then until his teeth chattering begins to annoy him.

Only then does he scrub last night from his skin.

He hates that he’s here. That he has to walk back into that bedroom where he knows Peter will be stretched on his back, basking in the sun, lazily scratching himself. He doesn’t know where his pants ended up. Or his keys. Can’t even remember if he brought his phone along. But he can’t hide in Parker’s shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel for ever.

He steps out, and there’s Peter smirking at him. Bucky refuses to look anywhere but his face. “Where’re my pants?’ He grits out.

Peter waves a vague hand and as Bucky glares, he pats the bed. Bucky grits his teeth, doesn’t exactly growl at him, but he grabs the first pair of jeans he sees and they’re too dark and too soft to be his own.

Too snug in the hips, but they’re pants and he steals a t-shirt that smells like Creed and feels like money.

“Those are mine,” Peter says, laughter in his voice. His eyes though, when Bucky turns around to snark back, are heavy. Sad. Winter Brown.

“I’ll clean ‘em before I give ‘em back,” he whispers instead. Peter sighs and rolls over, curls in on himself and drags the duvet over his head.

Bucky stands there, awkward, for a moment, and then Peter says “Orange bowl on the counter.”

His voice is muffled by the blanket, so Bucky only imagines the sorrow in those words. But he finds his keys and surprisingly his phone tucked between halos and nectarines. There’s a fifty in Peter’s front pocket he spends on the cab ride home. There’s a twenty in the back pocket he uses to by discount honey whiskey and a 2 liter of coke.

He figures he has a few hours before Peter calls him again.

\--

Sam is glowing when Bucky sinks into the booth and already he can tell the shot of fireball he had earlier isn’t going to be enough.

Sam pushes a bottle towards him and Bucky takes it quietly. They both pretend Sam doesn’t deflate a little, when he sees the gloss in Bucky’s eyes.

When he smells the cologne lingering against his jaw.

But he’s glowing and Bucky knows, so he tries to joke, “Another puppy already?”

Sam’s ears darken and he twist his own bottle in his hands. Bucky sighs and it feels like the whole world shifts with it.

“He cares about you, you know?” Sam says quiet. “We all do.”

Bucky thinks, _that’s the problem._ He thinks, _it’d hurt less if you didn’t_ and _I wish I didn’t_.

He says nothing, and tips the bottle back, guzzling far too much. It rolls down his beard, and he grimaces, wiping it away. His hands is sticky.

But he’s getting really used to being sticky.

Sam goes to say something else, but then Steve walks up and claps him on his shoulder and his eyes are so. So fucking blue, so excited.

A better man would stand up and shake his hand and congratulate him. A better man would… a lot of things.

But Bucky isn’t a saint and he stands up abruptly and says, “Left the stove on,” like they don’t all know he doesn’t even own one.

He’s dialing even as he shoves past them and Peter purrs in his ear. He turns, for half a heartbeat at the door; Peggy has arrived and Steve sits between her and Sam, a hand on either knee and two voices crooning in his ears.

He doesn’t even look up and that…

Bucky thinks that’s not as fresh a wound as it should be.

\--

Peter answers the door in a sheer, lacy, black thing and his cheeks are red and his lips glossy, but his eyes are dull.

Bucky doesn’t care. He leans forward and licks cinnamon alcohol from those plump lips, chasing the flavor even as it clashes with the lemon whisky from earlier.

They’re unsteady on their feet, laughing and tripping over nothing until they slam into the couch. It skids across the hardwood floor and they both freeze for a moment, eyeing the long scratch in the dark board.

Peter lays back against the cream leather and says, “Tony’s gonna be pissed.”

And then he snorts, laughs, and Bucky joins until they’re both in tears.

“Did you,” Peter starts, before he’s distracted by Bucky’s teeth sharp against a nipple. Bucky pinches his thigh.

“What?”

Peter shoves his head, shoves _down_ , until Bucky is untying the strings at his hips and licking smooth skin. He misses the curls.

“Did ya see the pics?”

Bucky bites his thigh hard, tries to suppress his shudder before nosing between his legs. He pushes until Peter pulls a knee to his chest to give him better access.

“Mhm. They’re gonna be mad when they see ‘em,” he smirks.

Peter pets his head, and says, “Duh.”

They can’t come up with words, after that. Everything is lemon and cinnamon, sticky and sweaty, too hot. They end up on the floor, Peter riding Bucky like…

Like if he doesn’t, he’ll sober up. Like sobering up is the end.

They come, not together, and it’s like riding a high that only goes down, so they chase it with mint and sour and haze.

They dig it into each others shoulders, lie it against each other’s hips, scream it into each other’s jaw, with bruise kisses, a war they’re both losing.

If their pillows are salty when they part at 2 a.m., they blame their sweat. 

\--

Steve looks at him, and he thinks he’s wearing concern, but really it’s just pity. “It’s not healthy, Buck. How Parker uses you. You deserve more.”

Bucky stares at him over the rim of the priciest beer the dive bar has. “It’s a pretty casual thing, Steve. We both know where we stand.”

Steve runs a finger around the rim of his own bottle. “I know. But he’s,” Steve glances at Peggy. Sam pats their hands.

“He’s never going to give Tony up, Bucky.”

“I wouldn’t either,” Bucky informs them. “I’ve been to that penthouse. It’s damn good money.”

Peggy wipes her mouth on a napkin and shrugs. “His youth will only last so long, and then Tony will move on to the next one. And then what, Buck? He’s going to come to you. Think you owe him after all this. Are you prepared for that? Prepared to tell him no then?”

And Bucky hates them for this, for not getting it. “Tony’s marrying Pepper this summer. Peter’s just taking what he’s owed.” Besides Bucky tells him “ _No_ ” at midnight every night even as he locks his door behind him. “I gotta go,” he tells them.

Sam is the only one who really seems to feel bad, to not judge.

“It’s not because of Peter,” Bucky lies. As if he can’t feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. As if he can’t feel the buzz hanging between his fingers.

He drops a twenty on the table and pretends he thinks it’ll cover more than his beer.

\--

Peter slinks into Bucky’s tiny little apartment, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy. He launches himself at him, and his breath smells like champagne. He presses a bottle into Bucky’s chest.

“Look!” He says, excited and giddy. “S’not even being sold yet.” Peter whispers it like it’s a secret.

Like Bucky hasn’t coveted the skull shaped bottle of Bourbon Whiskey.

Like this hunk of glass doesn’t cost more than _Peter’s_ apartment. “Peter, you can’t…” Buck says, dismayed. He’s already trying to return the gift, but Peter presses his hands to his ears, shakes his head like a child. His lip wobbles and his eyes water and Bucky _can’t_.

So he goes to the kitchen and grabs the only two real glasses he owns from the sink. He does a quick rinse, wipes them out with his shirt and pours entirely too much dark liquid in them.

Peter looks at him for a moment, when he takes the glass. “Have you…”

Bucky holds up the Captain Morgan Peter gave him last time. There’s a single swallow left, and he knocks it back before clicking his glass to Peter’s.

The first sip _burns,_ and they both sputter, eyes watering. Peter recovers first, more use to the finer things.

Bucky takes his slower. He’s been drinking since noon, and he’s been fuzzy since some time after.

Peter doesn’t seem to care. Doesn’t seem to feel the alcohol. He’s twitchy, antsy, and Bucky knows he’s going to _hate_ himself tomorrow.

The bottle is half empty, when Peter begins to sway. There’s no music playing- Bucky’s walls are too thin, but Peter has never needed music.

He said once, in a more sober moment, that music was always echoing in his skull. Broken lullabies he only half remembers.

Now, whatever he’s hearing must be melancholic. He moves slow, syrupy. Moves like his strings are being yanked about. He trips, over Bucky’s boots, and Bucky does his best to catch him.

They still end up in a heap on a pile of laundry, and Peter shakes against him. Bucky holds him, as tight as he dares, and ignores the salt spilling into his own ears.

When Peter is still, when his breathing has evened out, Bucky tugs them both up and leads him to the mattress in the corner. He’s careful, reverent, as he pulls off a t-shirt from a time before Rolex’s and caviar. He sucks the same fading bruise he left last week, and the fact that Peter doesn’t push him off his neck says a lot.

Peter’s eyes flutter, and he’s unsteady on his feet, and Bucky can feel him against his thigh. He closes his eyes when trembling fingers fidget with the hem of his old henley, when they struggle with his button.

With his eyes closed, Peter sinks to his knees and lands with a thud of _anticipation_. When his breath flutters against Bucky’s hip, his tongue scraps up his thigh, it’s _teasing_.

He lets himself get lost in the wet heat, for just a moment, before he’s pushing Peter back, down, up. He yanks on jeans that could probably pay his rent and bites at a belly that’s a little too firm, a little too sharp.

Peter’s impatient and Bucky doesn’t know how it could possibly feel good, but he thinks, _isn’t that the point?_ Peter answers him with red rides down his back and crescent moons at his ankles and burning kisses that taste like spices.

Peter comes with a sob that settles like sulfur in Buck’s ribs.

Bucky pulls out, rolls to the trashcan and tries not to be sick, even as Peter’s fingers card gently through his hair. He smacks his hands away, shoves until the younger boy settles in the corner and Bucky can’t feel his heat.

\--

Later, when they’re dressed, when they’re finishing the bottle and sweet smoke curls between them Peter will confess, “She finally bought a dress.”

Later, when they’re back in musky sheets and their mouths fit like broken glass and their fingers are as gentle as hammers, Bucky will answer, “Peggy’s having a boy.”

Later, Peter snores, wrapped around Bucky like too many threads and Bucky will admit he’s not as drunk as he needs to be.

But there’s a glass of old coke and rum, and it’s flat but it still burns.

 


End file.
